


Uncatchable

by keysburg



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Art appreciation, Canon-Typical Violence, Dick Jokes, F/M, Napoleon Solo's Apron, Prequel, he does work better alone, how did Napoleon get caught anyway, it is Napoleon we're talking about, lots of thievery, of course it was a woman, only a little smut as the plot requires, sexual innuendo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-25 01:29:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4941469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keysburg/pseuds/keysburg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How did uncatchable art thief Napoleon Solo end up working for the CIA in the first place? Inspired by this interview: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yLbGBnOmCoo</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A man of wealth and taste

It was just a small painting, but Napoleon was learning that the smallest jobs were often the most difficult.

He didn't usually do contract work; it could be messy and was usually risky. He much prefered to wait for an opportunity to present itself and then take advantage. His circle of black market contacts had grown to the point where he could easily off load not only art and antiquities but jewelry and more unusual items, and the Continental lifestyle he had built himself after the war generally provided him with many easy targets. Once you were in, and were being invited to hunting weekends in the Cotswolds and beach parties in Capri, there were generally plenty of opportunities for the light-fingered and quick-witted. 

It was February now though, and Napoleon was bored. Even his beloved England was too dreary in the winter, but he had failed to get invited on holiday anywhere warm. Instead, he ended up renting a small flat in Paris, trying to keep warm while eating pastries and drinking too much coffee. What was charming and light during the fall had become damp and bleak after the holidays ended. Worse than the weather was the lack of good company and he was forced to rely on his own more than he preferred.

Which was how he ended up with one of his newer contracts introducing him to a man with a ludicrous pseudonym. He wanted nothing but a tiny painting, just a quick study supposedly painted by an impressionist master. Said painting was part of a large collection owned by a businessman who made a fortune on bricks and the equipment that makes bricks. It made sense; bricks were needed after the war and this man, Monsieur Arnault Sartre, was smart enough to plan for that. It left him with a lot of disposable income to spend on art, although Napoleon had to wonder if a brick salesman really had the soul to appreciate such things. 

When he started to research the job, it didn’t seem all that messy or risky. Sartre had a daughter who had just jilted a fiancé; he also had a penchant for throwing lavish parties, even in the middle of winter. It made him just Solo’s type of gentleman. 

The daughter was not exactly Solo’s easiest mark. She wasn’t much for the discothequés and he had to eventually leverage a favor--a friend of a friend to make an introduction at a not-that-accidental run-in at one of her favorite luncheon spots. 

“Michelle, my dear, have you met my good friend Napoleon?” Marcel-something-or-other managed to get them an invitation to eat lunch together, even if Michelle’s friend Nadine had a gimlet eye for both of them.

“I have not had the pleasure,” Michelle smiled.

“The pleasure is all mine.” Napoleon simpered, just a little, as he kissed her hand. She giggled, but Nadine refused to take his hand, so he turned to have a word with the waiter while the conversation continued.

“Marcel, where have you been the last few weeks while I’ve been trying to keep dear Michelle distracted?” 

“Holiday, you know. Morocco. It was terribly boring. I regret going now that I know you girls were in need of company.”

“I’m sure someone else picked up the slack in your absence. I can’t imagine any man not wanting to spend time with such charming ladies,” Napoleon said, capturing Michelle’s eyes with his own.

“We’ve only just met; how do have any opinion on us whatsoever?” Nadine asked, quite uncharitably. 

“Are you saying you aren’t charming?” Napoleon didn’t even look at Nadine, his eyes still on Michelle, who giggled. Oh, this was easy. “Maybe I should send the champagne back, if that’s the case,” he said as the waiter returned to the table, bottle in hand. “I’d hate to waste it; it’s rather a nice bottle.” 

Michelle was quite happy to drink the champagne with her lunch, and perfectly pleased to be invited to dinner, even if he suspected she didn’t quite appreciate the quality of the restaurant he took her to. Over dinner, he tried to get her to tell him why exactly her engagement had floundered but managed nothing more than getting her pleasantly tipsy. She even agreed to accompany to him to his favorite hotel bar, a discreet place with a lot of booths tucked into corners. 

That was where his luck ran out, it seemed. After a few kisses in his usual booth, she sighed and pushed his hand off her knee. 

“I don’t want you to think me rude; I have quite enjoyed myself. I’m afraid that I’m about to ruin the rest of the evening though.”

“And how could you possibly do that? It’s been so delightful.” He recognized the signs; she was about to tell him about how meaningful her virtue was.

After a lengthy story that involved an audience with the Pope and explained why her fiancé gave up on her eventually, she finished with “...and so while you’re quite handsome, I’m sure you’re disappointed in all this, and I won’t be upset if you take me home directly.” Napoleon gave a little sigh and a shake of his head, looking deep into her eyes and thinking while she was pleasant enough, he wasn’t too disappointed to miss bedding such a plain and skinny girl--as long as this didn’t interfere with his target. 

“My dear. The pleasure of your company is enough to keep me around for a good long while. I will confess that I hope you’ll eventually let me show you the joys of some of the… more minor sins?” At this he squeezed her hip and leaned in to whisper, “I would like to see you enjoy yourself, even if it’s at my... expense. But until then, I hope you will still do me the honor of seeing me again--maybe tomorrow?” His remarks had the desired effect, and after a few more minutes of slow, gentle kisses, they exited the bar. 

They spent the next few weeks frequenting nice (but not that nice) restaurants where people she knew would see her, taking long walks, and necking like teenagers. It really wasn’t that much effort to get an invitation to Monsieur Sartre’s next party, where he was planning on unveiling a new addition to his collection--a much larger and more significant work than the piece he had taken a commission to retrieve. It was perfect.

On the night in question, Napoleon showed up precisely on time, looking good in his tuxedo and ready to party. Of course, showing up on time meant he was actually early and there were only a few older aunties and such--and his date. Michelle greeted him joyfully, and he set to the mission of getting her drunk, hoping to make her pass out around the time the party reached it’s height--when he planned to make his move.

Until then, it was quite dull, and he ended up trapped in the receiving line, his Miss Sartre essentially putting him on display for her friends. He played his part to a T, flirting lightly with everyone but doting on Michelle, who appreciated the attention. It was all a blur--except for a woman who commented on his accent and how similar it was to her husband’s, who was the U.S. Ambassador to Belgium. Oriane and Henry Wallace made an odd pair, his American accent slowing his passable Parisian French even as he mimicked the more clipped vowels common locally. Against Oriane’s very Belgian French that almost caressed each vowel, it gave the impression of two people speaking at cross purposes. Napoleon made the effort to charm her and make a good impression on the man while he was at it. 

When the line finally ended, he danced Michelle around the floor until she got quite dizzy, and he got her yet more champagne while they strolled through the halls displaying her father’s artwork. It made it easy to note the position of his target, down a long hall from the work that inspired the evening. He expected this would be it and he could soon lay her on a couch and get to his real business. Instead, he was surprised when she ended up pressing him into a small washroom and locking the door.

“I’ve been thinking--about those minor sins. I would hate for my confession to get boring, after all,” she whispered, pressing him against the sink and rolling her hips into him. 

Never let it be said that Napoleon Solo left a lady wanting once he had offered his services. He spun them around and popped her up to sit on the edge of the sink, moving in between her legs. She gave a little surprised cry and swayed a bit but pulled him into her, hands grasping his shoulders. His lips went to her neck as one hand went to the small of her back and the other to her ankle. He ran his fingers up along her nylons, under her voluminous skirt, to play along the top where her garters were fastened. She moaned encouragingly as his lips drifted down to her décolletage and his fingers began to stroke the soft skin above the edge of the nylon stockings. She bent her head to capture his lips inelegantly while she pushed his hand up to run along the edge of her panties. He wasted no time in sliding his fingers under them and along her slick folds, to rub the small nub that made her rock her hips into his hand. It wasn’t long after he slid questing fingers inside her that she dropped her head to his shoulder, pressing the whole length of her body against his. He crooked his fingers and pressed his thumb in slow circles and smiled to himself as she clenched around his hand. He kept going until her hips rocked to a stop and she relaxed against him. He wrapped his arms around her as she snuggled into neck.

He was wondering exactly how many minor sins she might like to try as her breathing slowed. He had things to do but running off wasn’t very chivalrous--he realized her breathing had slowed quite dramatically. She had passed right out, slumped against him. Maybe he had been too generous with the champagne, if she went out that quickly. Moving slowly, he moved his hands under her bottom to lift her slight body against him. She made no sound as he lowered her into the tub of the washroom and sat her in it with her cheek against the edge. He was a little worried he had overdone it, but she was breathing and in a position where she was unlikely to choke if she ended up vomiting. 

He left her there, after washing his hands and closing the door tightly behind him. He’d check on her again--after he had the painting.

As he rounded the corner of the small hall where his target had hung, he was greeted with something he hadn’t expected: a blank spot on the wall where it had been. In the corner of his eye he saw a swish of peach silk, and as he followed he saw a small, wrapped rectangular package being tucked under a skirt. He followed, at a careful distance, and caught view of her face as she rounded a corner. It was the Belgian Ambassador’s wife. He lost view of her completely when they reached the ballroom, where he was accosted by Nadine. 

“And where is Michelle? I’ve been looking everywhere for her!” The woman had not warmed up to him. He pretended to be glad to see her. 

“I’m afraid she’s quite overdone it. Maybe you could help me get her to bed?” He led her back to the bathroom where Michelle lay, still snoring, in the bath. He carried her to her room, Nadine tutting the entire way. He left them there, confident Michelle would be safe under Nadine’s watchful eye. 

Back in the ballroom, he searched out the Oriane and found her alone at one of the bars, her husband deep in conversation with a group of men across the room. As he made his way over, Napoleon was so focused he almost missed the hand off. She slid the small package out, through what was clearly a special slit in her skirt, and passed it to the young man who was collecting the garbage from behind the bar. She did it without looking, seemingly deep in conversation with the bartender. Napoleon hesitated. The boy taking out the trash would be easy to overpower; he might make a scene in the kitchen but the faux pas--and getting barred from Sartre estate, if it came to it--would probably be worth the commission. Looking at Oriane, he decided to let it go. He was more interested in learning why an Ambassador’s wife would be stealing than his commission. Even though it had seemed straightforward, this job had indeed gotten messy, although he suspected it had nothing to do with the job and everything to do with the client. 

He tried to smile charmingly as he took the place next to her at the bar, but he knew it came out more of a smirk, the result of knowing something only one other person in the room knows. It had the desired effect though, and she stiffened slightly as he sat, suspecting she’d been seen.

“What are we drinking?” he asked, eyeing her martini glass, filled with an opaque orangy-brown.

“The bartender called it a gin and sin,” she replied.

“That sounds like a good time indeed,” he said, and ordered one for himself. He caught a little eye roll from her, although she still looked a little on edge. Right. This was a lady who moved in powerful circles, not a plain virgin who would blush at any little innuendo. Unfortunately he could not quite hide his grimace as he sipped the drink, which was too sweet and quite citrusy, overpowering some of the more subtle flavors of the gin. Oriane caught his expression and gave a little chuckle.

“Well, you might have warned me the sin involved was ruining a nice gin,” he grumbled, taking a bigger swig and trying not to taste it as he swallowed it down. 

“You didn’t ask me if I liked it,” she pointed out. “Besides, the bad things help us appreciate the good more. And taking recommendations from strangers is a good way to size them up. Our bartender,” she nodded at the man, now at the other end of the bar, pouring a couple whiskeys, “has a very stereotypical opinion of women. I bet he’s dreadful in bed.” This surprised a laugh out of Napoleon.

“Do you size up all the men you meet for affairs or just bartenders?” he asked before he could help himself. 

“I evaluate everyone I meet on how entertaining they are likely to be,” she said, “in any manner. He’s probably terrible at poker too, folding on bad hands too often, so everyone can tell when he has a good one.” 

“Oh, well, do give me a chance to reassure you that I can be quite entertaining, in any manner you like,” he said. 

“Very well, although you already have a strike against you, given your taste in company. Where is dear Michelle, anyway?”

“The champagne went to her head, poor dear. She’s having a lie-down. But I actually keep quite a wide variety of company. In fact, I do believe we have someone in common,” he paused, and she raised an eyebrow. “Correct me if I’m mistaken, but you’re here tonight partially on consideration of a Monsieur Reynard, yes?” Something flashed in her eyes, dismay perhaps. Then a slow smile lit her face, and she finally lost the tension from her upper body. 

“The fool double-booked the job, yes? I appreciate you telling me. He wants this more than I realized, and I’ll be sure to renegotiate the final settlement with that in mind. I’m sorry your obvious investment came to naught, particular since everyone knows that those who date Michelle come not.” The crude turn of phrase startled him into laughter, drawing attention to them even in the loud ballroom--but he could not regret it.

“It will teach me to beware of men who think themselves so clever they name themselves ‘fox’. If you mean that though, I’m quite sure you can make it up to me.”

“I could do that,” she said slowly. “But it probably won’t be in the manner you’d prefer. Although never say never--I am in need of a husband.”

“I was under the impression you had one,” Napoleon said. “But I’d be delighted to be of service.”

“I’ll have to save the details for later,” she said. “If we were to meet tomorrow to discuss it, where should that be?” He gave the matter a moment’s thought, since this was clearly a test. The cafe he named must have been a sufficient recommendation, as she asked him to meet her there for a late lunch.


	2. Time for a change

The café was larger than he normally preferred, but that made it a little noisier, which would suit their purpose. He made sure to arrive a little early and chose a table against the wall, not too close to the back. He didn’t want bored kitchen staff listening.

Oriane arrived precisely on time, looking entirely different than she had the night before. Instead of an expensive peach silk party dress, she wore a tidy brown pencil skirt with a red rollneck sweater. Last night, her rich chestnut hair was piled high on her head; today, she had a single braid over one shoulder. The flashy jewelry was gone and she wore only a couple simple gold bangles on one wrist. She might have passed for a secretary instead of the wife of a diplomat, and he found he preferred this look immensely. She greeted him as if he was an old friend--two kisses on each cheek--and passing him a small brown paper bag. “I saw this and thought of you,” she said with a smile. He took a careful peek in the bag and saw two stacks of cash. 

“Very thoughtful,” he assured her. “But why?” 

“I’ve realized how interesting it was you chose to make my acquaintance last night, but I want to start things out on an equal footing.”

“And that’s important?” This was unexpected. Women in Oriane’s position often thought nothing of unequal sexual politics, since they generally benefitted from them. He had expected a fellow thief to use them to her advantage at all times, as he generally did. 

“I’m trying to avoid saying something terribly cliché about honor among thieves--but for this project I’d quite like us to approach it as teammates.” After they put in an order with the server, she continued, “I need you to rent a particular house.”

“That seems straightforward. Why do you need me?”

“The landlord is looking for a particular arrangement. A married couple, and when I approached him about it he was--disinclined to do business with a woman. I can’t use my actual husband, for obvious reasons. I’m not even using my actual name.”

“Hmm, understandable. And why is this neighborhood so desirable?” 

“Well, some of the shops there are quite nice. One has the loveliest sparklies, you see. And the owner has a habit of taking holiday in between St. Joseph’s and Easter.”

“That’s not my usual scene, but it sounds promising. Does it have additional benefits? Hopefully, you have insight to renovate this little love nest to our mutual satisfaction?

“I think so, yes. And I despise having a lot of workmen underfoot so I hope you’re a bit handy. Mostly brute modifications, there’s only one small bit of delicate manipulation involved--if that’s in your wheelhouse?” She raised one eyebrow at him, as if she already knew the answer.

“Shouldn’t be a problem. But now that I’m not owed any favors, I hope my stake will be equal to my efforts.”

“I propose both our returns be equal to our efforts. I’ve scouted the locations; I’ve determined ideal timing. I have cover in place for both of us, plus all the necessary items have been purchased. We’ll share the actual--renovation work. You will only be solely responsible for renting the the space and the final adjustments, as we just discussed. So… 70/30.” She leaned back from the table, the slightest hint of a smirk on her lips. Another test then. Normally his ego didn’t appreciate challenges, but she seemed to be enjoying herself. He found he was as well.

“Ah, but I thought you wanted to be equals. What if you take reimbursements for your costs up until now off the top, and we split the remainder 50/50?”

“I said teammates, which aren’t always equal. I wouldn’t provide you with receipts, even if they existed, and I don’t care to dicker later over the value of our new acquisitions. 60/40. By weight.” 

“Alright. If you tell me one thing: you’ve already made quite an investment here. Why?”

“We just discussed the rewards, I believe. Why else?” She was trying to remain relaxed but couldn’t stop her back from tensing slightly. He caught the slight movement of her shoulders going down and back, even as she sipped at her coffee with studied nonchalance. That was definitely her tell, how she reacted when someone knew something they shouldn’t. It reminded him of nothing so much as a cat, arching its back.

“The world is full of nice houses, kitten, and more thrilling amusements than even renovations. There must be another reason.” Her hazel eyes flashed dangerously, at the pet name or the insinuation, he wasn’t sure. Likely both.

“The jewelry store is lovely. But I found the owner much less so.”

Napoleon generally found the best revenge was living well. His old classmates may have mocked his father’s low accent and manner of employment, but they ended up either dead in the war or going home to the same borough they grew up in. They might not be janitors but they probably still worked hard at slightly more respectable jobs. He was here, in Paris, letting himself into a little flat with a literal bag full of cash. Life was good. So he didn’t exactly understand Oriane’s rancor at a rude shopkeeper, but a quick casing of the store revealed it would indeed be worthwhile. Keeping further company with Oriane herself was just a bonus. He found it hard to dwell on his wet feet and the dreadful wind outside, instead contemplating the red undertones in her hair and her more understandable desire to keep life interesting--and this lovely little scheme she had cooked up, of course. He counted the money and found it to be approximately forty percent of the original commission offered by “Monsieur Reynard.” He suspected she had bargained for an extra thirty over the original and provided him a third of her total earnings. Her idea of fair seemed to be “some for you, some for me, and then just a little bit more for me.” 

A few days later found him packing up and heading over to the house, having rented it without much issue. He arrived to find Oriane directing an entire crew of men, who were moving furniture into the house. He tried not to be disappointed when he saw at least two beds going up the stairs. He kissed her hello on the mouth and was rewarded with a little pinch on his side, under his jacket where none of the men could see. Good thing he kept his tongue to himself. He tried not to laugh as he went in, leaving his suitcase in the mostly furnished study and going into the kitchen.

The kitchen itself was lovely, all tiled in cream with an AGA stove and a new refrigerator. The contents of the kitchen were sadly lacking. It appeared Oriane had a delivery from the shops but as he unpacked the bags he found only the bare necessities and a stupendous amount of alcohol. They had a little over two weeks of preparation and playing house to get through, maybe she expected they would eat most of their meals out? This wouldn’t do at all. 

A quick stop back at his flat and a visit to more than a few shops later, he returned to the house to find the moving men fortunately gone. The house was still half-empty but was outfitted with enough to make it comfortable and far more than was really necessary for their stay. He found Oriane in the kitchen. She sat at the big wooden table, pouring over building plans and sipping a drink from a highball glass. 

It was still early. The house Napoleon had rented was actually one building over from their intended target, and they couldn’t start preparations until the shop in between closed for the day. So after setting up a small radio brought from his flat, fixing himself a whiskey rocks and tying on his favorite apron, he started chopping vegetables and rendering pork fat. The rhythms of the kitchen were soothing and he quite forgot anyone else was there until dinner was simmering gently on the stove. He turned around to refill his glass and found Oriane watching him.

“I thought I was hiring a safecracker,” she said. “I had no idea I was getting a chef in the bargain. I wouldn’t have expected you to be so willing to get your hands dirty.” 

“Well, you actually said you were looking for a husband. And this is only one of many services I can offer along those lines. Although I don’t plan on getting too dirty--in the spirit of partnership, I’m leaving the dishes for you.”

“In that case, it might have not been such a good deal. There are plenty of lovely restaurants in this neighborhood, along with its other charms.”

“You should taste it before you make up your mind, don’t you think?” He walked over to sit next to her at the table, careful not to rest his glass on her plans. “It’s hard to know what you’re missing until you give it a try. With that in mind, I’d be happy to offer you a sample of any of my services.” He stretched his right arm to rest on the back of her chair. This close, he could smell her perfume even over his cooking, lily and something woodsy. She made no move in response, neither leaning toward nor away from him.

“Is that what that was earlier today?” she asked lightly. He chuckled a little.

“No, that was only a perfunctory display for our cover. If you choose to investigate any of my other skill sets, the extent is for you to decide, but I’d hope you’d require a bit more before making a decision.” They sat for a minute, the radio playing softly and dinner bubbling on the stove. He took advantage of their closeness to admire the darkening of her eyes behind her long lashes and the purse of her lips as she seemed to consider this. 

“You are much more interesting than you appeared at first blush, Napoleon. Though I think for now, we’ll stick with dinner and how you wield a chisel.” At this he moved his arm back off her chair and leaned away. 

“As you wish, of course. Dinner will be ready in about an hour. I think I’ll take the opportunity to move into my room. Did you choose which you’d like?”

“Yes, I took the room on the left at the top of the stairs. The other bed went into the room on the right.” It didn’t take him long to unpack and change out of his suit and into some work clothes: jeans and a long sleeve sweater. 

He may have been disappointed in her answer, but he was not disappointed with her reaction to his _coq au Riesling_. He had chosen the white wine as the base of his dish knowing it would probably be more familiar for the Belgian than the local version--and she had stocked the house with quite a few bottles of it, so she must like it. The mushrooms he had procured at one shop were particularly good, highlighted by the lighter sauce. He was pleased with the effect, but Oriane’s eyes actually fluttered closed as she chewed. He resisted the urge to gloat about it, and they ate in a companionable quiet, the radio still playing softly. 

After dinner they stood in the basement and studied a bare brick wall. The plan was to go through this wall, the walls of the building in between, and the wall on the other side of that to gain entry into the shop’s basement. To avoid attracting attention and to make it harder for the crime to be discovered they intended to replace the walls behind them when they were finished. That meant they couldn’t just blow holes in all the walls, but would have to remove sections of the brick that could be replaced each morning. Worse, to make it as hard to spot as possible they couldn’t just cut holes but had to chisel out the mortar between them. Oriane had drawn on the wall in pencil, marking manageable sections to be removed and numbering them top to bottom. Fortunately, she had acquired pneumatic chisels, but this was still slow, grueling and noisy work. 

They took short turns, at first, building up their endurance for holding and operating the chisels. This had the benefit of letting the other go upstairs to escape the noise, which became tedious after a bit, even though they wore earplugs. Oriane let him muscle all the brick chunks down out of the wall. After the first night they only had the first opening was not quite three-quarters finished, although they worked from 11:30 to 4 AM, which meant five more nights of hard work. When she signaled it was time to stop, Napoleon went straight upstairs and fell dead asleep in minutes.

As the week wore on, Napoleon started to get bored again. The second and third walls were fortunately a bit softer than the first, but the time saved getting through them was lost in keeping the space tidy, moving boxes around the shop basement to cover the area, and putting the walls back together. The shop basement next door had clearly been untouched for a long time, but it was always possible someone would come down looking for something, so they covered their tracks as best they could. The work was tedious and exhausting, and that didn’t help.

What made it worse was that Oriane wasn’t really around that much. She generally slept later than he did, and when she did wake, it was to go out and work her cover for staying in Paris--fundraising for a local hospital, he learned from eavesdropping. He amused himself with said eavesdropping, by escorting her outside to get a taxi and kissing her in front of the whole neighborhood, drinking her wine, and by doing more cooking. He was surprised by how much she liked his _boudin noir aux pommes_ ; he hadn’t expected her to appreciate the blood sausage but it was still sausage, and she was Belgian. Maybe what she liked was the potato salad dressed with vinaigrette he served alongside, which cut the richness of the sausage nicely. 

The jewelry shop was already closed for the owner’s holiday by the time they got to that wall, so it was okay that it took almost two full nights before they had opened the wall enough to squeeze Napoleon’s shoulders through. He took a good long look at the safe, and they backed out and bricked up three walls once again. It was frustrating to leave without touching anything, thinking of the wealth that lay in locked cases one floor above, but Oriane was precise in her plan. Work was only done in the dead of night, and that included the actual thievery most of all. 

“How long to crack it?” she asked, when the walls were replaced and they were back upstairs. They were covered in dust and dirt and Napoleon was exhausted, but her eyes sparkled as she waited for an answer.

“I’ll have to do it by touch or sound; there’s no drilling a beast like that. Fifty minutes, minimum.” He thought he could do it a bit faster than that, but managing expectations was always a good idea. 

“It will probably take me only twenty to clear the upstairs,” she said. “And maybe another ten to mix the mortar for fixing the walls. You should go in at 1:30; I will go in at two. The dog across the street doesn’t usually start barking until 3:15 or so, and the street should be dead.”

“Tomorrow, then,” Napoleon said. He leaned against the wall at the foot of the stairs, closing his eyes and trying to summon the energy to get up the staircase to bed. Something else was stirred when he felt her brushing some of the dust off the front of his shirt. He opened to find her body very close to his, but not quite touching, other than the hand she rested, now on his upper arm. He looked down at her, half a head shorter than him, a little bewildered.

“If you perform as expected, I just might have to sample some of your other services after all,” she purred.

“Really?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow at her. “What made you change your mind?”

“Well, I wanted to see how things went. If you had started complaining at any point during our labor, I might have been inclined to use my chisel on your skull, rather than seeing what your tool could do for me. Tomorrow will be the deciding factor, of course.” With that rather disturbing statement, she went up the stairs. He watched her go, and when she reached the top he followed her up and went into his separate room. He was too tired to respond or even ponder the implications right now.


	3. Washed his hands and sealed his fate

In the morning, he was disappointed with his failure to return the repartee or even confirm his interest. “Well, we already know you like my coq,” he muttered to himself. What a waste of a perfect set up. Chicken for dinner tonight then, he thought, just in case another opportunity came ‘round. After breakfast, he found himself too restless--the anticipation of the job tonight making the tedium and the boredom of the long week completely worthwhile. He went for a long walk, ending up at _Musée national d'art moderne_ to sit in meditation before one of his favorite paintings, Matisse’s _Les poissons rouges_. What he had liked about the painting before was how the brighter colors drew the eye outside, where all the pleasures of Paris might be waiting. Today, he wondered what joys waited, unseen, in the soothing blue interior. Before, it had seemed to him the painting of a morning where a long day stretched ahead, in which anything might happen. Now, it seemed as nothing so much as a vexing dilemma: go and see what waited in the wider world, or stay inside where it was cool and quiet and enjoy what was there already. He sat there far too long and was quite stiff when he started his walk back to the house.

He couldn’t find any mushrooms or any fresh vegetables at all at the shop. Dinner ended up being roasted chicken with garlic; mindful of his audience he prepared with it stoemp flavored with bacon. It was as good a thing to do as any with root vegetables, even if he was sick of them--sick of winter, ready for fresh food and fresh winds. As rain started to pelt the windows, he started to ponder using some of his share of the diamonds to travel some place warmer at his earliest convenience, rather than waiting out the rest of the cold and wet weather. 

It was warm and cozy in the kitchen though, as the AGA radiated heat from roasting the chicken and he sipped a fine scotch. Very soon, he’d be doing what he loved most.

Several hours later, he finally laid his hands on the safe, his heart thumping in excitement. This was always his favorite part, listening to the spin of the dials. A safe could hold anything, and the endless possibilities and the unknown always thrilled him. He took a deep breath and pushed his excitement down, summoning the focus he needed to sense the click of the wheels inside the lock. 

He already had two numbers to the combination by the time Oriane went upstairs, and when she was back exactly eighteen minutes later, he had just discovered the third. He stopped her to watch and then opened the safe.

There were many bags of uncut diamonds inside, conveniently sorted by quality. There was also some paperwork which turned out to be the deeds to the shop and the owner’s houses: one here in Paris, the other in Nice. Oriane took those too, which gave him pause. She was obviously planning to take everything from the man that she could. It seemed unnecessary, but he supposed he hardly had the moral high ground here. The man’s diamonds were going to buy him a very fine life indeed. 

All those hours deconstructing brick walls and now they had to reconstruct them. Worse, for the openings into both shops, they had to reconstruct them from the top down, so that Oriane could smooth the mortar for most of the segments from the inside. Leaving only a small segment or two out of the bottom, she did so while Napoleon added mortar from the other side. When she was finished, she wiggled her upper body through the opening on the floor, faced up. She extended her hands to Napoleon and he dragged her carefully the rest of the way. There was nothing to make the inside smooth on the bottom as they closed up the hole in the brick, but the hope was it would be harder to notice at ground level. They were likely to find it if they examined all the walls, but Napoleon was betting that wouldn’t occur to them.

They were about halfway done closing up the third wall when they heard a knock upstairs, on the door of the shop. It was still raining and was probably miserable out; who would be knocking on a closed shop? They both immediately turned their lanterns off and stood there, on opposites sides of most of a wall, listening. 

The rain obscured the sounds but few short minutes later a knock sounded on the door of their house. “ _Putain!_ ” Oriane hissed. Napoleon was already moving to head up the stairs. He thought about what he probably looked like right now: old clothes, covered in dust and now with bits of mortar stuck to them. So he stripped them right off as he went upstairs, throwing his shirt behind him and leaving his jeans puddled on his shoes at the top of the steps. He left the basement door only slightly ajar behind him and rumpling his hair, went to answer the door in only his boxers.

“Pardon me, sir,” the gendarme at his door said. “There was a car stolen from this street about an hour ago. Did you perhaps hear or see anything?” Napoleon stared at the man in bewilderment. This was a nice neighborhood, but were the cops were so motivated as to investigate a missing car in the middle of the night, in the rain? Did someone outside hear something as they worked in one of the basements?

“Nope, been sound asleep for hours,” he responded. He started to shiver standing there with the door open, waiting to see if there was anything else.

“Sorry to wake you then, sir,” the man said politely. “Have a good night.” Napoleon nodded at him and closed the door. As he headed to get his clothes back on, the basement door swung open to reveal Oriane standing there, his shirt in her hands. Something glinted sharply in her eyes as they swept over his mostly naked body, taking in his muscled form and lingering over his underwear. Suddenly, he didn’t feel cold at all. After a long moment, she just tossed him his shirt and headed back down the stairs. He pulled on his clothes and went to help her get the last of the bricks in place.

They spread the diamonds over the big table in the kitchen and Oriane produced a scale from somewhere. She divided the diamonds into categories of size and color, cut and uncut, and set to weighing him forty percent of each, as they had agreed. He leaned against the counter across from the table and watched her work, wondering if he could trust her to actually give him equal quality stones. He decided he didn’t care. The small pile of finished jewelry she allotted to him was more than enough to support him for several years by itself. The jewelry, the well planned heist, the adrenaline of almost getting caught--it was all good--but it was nothing compared to her. He watched her in her work clothes, a simple shirt and heavy weight pants, form-fitting to prevent catching as she worked. She was weighing thousands of dollars in diamonds and recording the weights for each category like he was going to check her work. Her clothes were streaked with dirt from crawling on the basement floors; she had a smudge across her cheek and somehow even a few bits of mortar clung to her braid, which was coming loose. But her eyes were alive with triumph, and as she packed their separate piles of little velvet bags into two cases, he decided he was done waiting. 

The moment she turned to speak to him, he crossed the kitchen in two quick strides and swept her into his arms. Her smile when she saw him coming was nothing less than predatory, but he didn’t care, kissing her hard. For a minute, they fought for control before he surrendered and allowed her to change the kiss into something more teasing and playful. Meanwhile, he slid his hands down her back and lifted her onto the low table. He tried to grind against her but was thwarted when she squeezed her legs together, catching his hips between her knees and keeping their bodies separated by just a couple inches. Her hands squeezed his biceps with bruising strength, keeping him just within kissing distance but no closer. He growled and she laughed, moving on to alternately kiss and scrape her teeth along the edge of his jaw on her way to his neck. He changed tactics and slid his hands under her shirt at the waist. He kept his touch light and teasing as he dragged them slowly upward, over her low back and then up her sides to rest just beneath her breasts. She gasped as he worked his thumbs under her bra to brush them back and forth along the swell on the underside of her breasts, teasing. She pulled him in then, arms going around his neck as she kissed him deeply. 

Instead of grinding against her this time, he went for the waistband of her pants. When he got the zipper down, she arched up against him, bracing herself on his shoulders to pick her ass off table so he could pull her pants down, underwear with them. He tried to slow down then, to move his hand over her sex with light, teasing touches, only for her to cover his hand with her own and start moving it harder and faster. Once he picked up the rhythm, her hands went for his zipper. She pulled his achingly hard length out and gave it one, two quick strokes. Then she was pushing his hand out of the way and fitting their bodies together. She was hot and wet, and he almost lost it right then when she reached around and slipped her hands into his jeans to dig her fingers into the muscle of his ass. It was a near thing, but he managed to use his experience to focus on following the roll of her hips and moving a hand to cup her. He slipped one long finger between her folds for her to move against and held out until her inner muscles began to clench around him and he could finally follow her over the edge.

When he woke, it was already early afternoon and he was practically clinging to the edge of the mattress while Oriane lay sprawled, taking more than her share. It was a much better mattress than the one in his room, but that did little to comfort him as he took inventory of all the new bruises, scrapes, and even bite marks he now sported. It was worth it, he decided, as he rolled over to where she lay face down, running his hand gently through her hair fanned over her back. He had finally gotten it down out of its braid after the second round. She roused, leaning into his hand and stretching her back, reminding him again of a cat. A lazy, well fed jungle cat, he mused. She was not a tame housecat, that was certain.

“You’ve woken me, but I don’t smell coffee,” she grumbled. He laughed and slipped from the bed to duck into his room for some clothes.

He was putting the finishing touches on the first omelette when she came down the stairs, once again neatly dressed, her hair braided again. He plated it and set it in front of her, and then poured her coffee. 

“What’s the exit strategy?” he asked, turning to make his own omelette.

“The diamonds have to go,” she said. “Moving them offsite today is the first priority, along with any personal items you don’t want to leave here. Tomorrow, we will clean. Everything wiped down, anything we touched or might have touched. We’ll leave tomorrow night, well after midnight.”

“What about the furniture?”

“It would attract attention to move it all out after we just moved it all in, so it stays. I’ve got some paperwork indicating our aliases are taking a vacation I can leave out, and some old clothes to round out the closets. They will probably connect us to the robbery when we don’t pay the rent next month. All they will have are descriptions, and aliases that lead nowhere.” 

“It’s gone fairly well so far, but I’d feel better about getting out of town for awhile. What are your plans after tomorrow?”

“Back to Brussels, at least for a bit.” Napoleon could swear he felt the air thicken with everything he wanted to say but didn’t dare. She just sat there, watching him eating his omelette, and waited.

“Recent diversions notwithstanding, this winter has been tedious. I’m ready for warmer weather. I’ve always meant to get back to Corfu, see the Old Town, soak in the sights on the _Spianada_ ,” he said finally. Because he’d regret it if he didn’t, he continued, “If you have some free time in the next month or two, you should think about joining me.”

They left it like that, finishing the job as she had outlined. He didn’t expect to see her in Corfu. He didn’t expect to see her ever again, unless they ran into each other at a party or… he always stopped himself there. So three weeks later, when he was taking his post-breakfast walk along the promenade and saw her walking toward him, he had to wonder if he was imagining it. She was there, large as life, and after a moment, he decided he didn’t care why she was there. Even if he was only but a small diversion for her, he’d take what he could get. He walked up to her and without hesitation, drew her in for a kiss. 

“So you missed me then?” she asked, laughing, when he finally let her go.

“Yes,” he said simply. She looked taken aback by his honest answer. 

The next few weeks were full of idyllic pleasures--sunbathing, eating, making love. They sat long hours in cafes and tried to outdo each other, making observations on passersby. At her request, he taught her the basics of pickpocketing and watched her practice on tourists. A quick smile and a soft word always smoothed over any issue the few times she got caught. He had rented a small apartment and she stayed there with him. They slept late most days, and he always made coffee before waking her. 

Such things couldn’t last forever; he expected one or both of them to grow bored, or her husband to summon her for something. She seemed content though, and every morning he woke and looked at the sun filtering in through the shutters and thought of two fish in a little blue room. In the end, what happened was not what he had expected--even their own capricious whims failing to stir trouble. A very old friend of Napoleon’s came looking for him instead.


	4. Every cop a criminal

Napoleon was at a café and watching Oriane practice her pickpocketing. She hadn’t gotten caught in about twenty attempts, but they had a bet that she couldn’t make fifty successful ones in a row. When he saw her pick a target that looked familiar, he tried to give her the signal to abort. Either she didn’t see him or she was ignoring him, because she moved after her target, dropping her lure to the ground. He was walking Napoleon’s way and she had to call after him twice to get his attention--again, he taught her that was reason to disengage. Her mark barely glanced at her lure, assuring her he did not drop anything, but she went for the clasp on his watch anyway. In a flash he was twisting her wrist, just to the point of causing pain.

“Nice try, luv, but there’s bound to be better marks elsewhere. Off with you.” He released her wrist and gave her a little hip check before striding in Napoleon’s direction. Her eyes were blazing as she watched him walk away, and Napoleon was a little worried she might do something rash over the insult. Then, she realized he was heading straight for Napoleon’s table and she turned around, either going home to sulk or more likely going to creep around and listen from the alley. Napoleon watched the man approach. He hadn’t changed much since he last saw him: slim, not quite six feet tall. He had a little grey at the temples of his light brown hair, which was styled into a perfect pompadour. He was wearing impeccably tailored pleated casual slacks and the most atrociously patterned short-sleeve button down. Napoleon realized he did look like a perfect mark for pickpocket: a fairly well-to-do tourist with more money than sense; it was misleading.

“Hello, Grant. This is a surprise,” Napoleon, standing as the man finally reached him. The smaller man swept him straight into a firm hug. 

“Is it really? After your letter about how dreadfully bored you were?” Grant asked, releasing him to sit down. 

“Oh, that,” Napoleon said. “I quite forgot about writing you.” He wrote several letters his second week on Corfu, before Oriane had appeared. 

“Yes, it would seem you scared up some very attractive company, but then you always do. I thought perhaps she might be a mark until I saw this little pickpocket game you have going. Not trying to pay your rent on the poor bird’s efforts, are you?” Napoleon laughed at that.

“No, things are quite comfortable right now. She wanted to learn.”

“A kindred spirit then? Where did you find her?”

“At a party, of course,” Napoleon said, smiling as the other man began to laugh.

“Should have guessed! No good story then?” Grant asked, eyes sparkling.

“I didn’t say that,” Napoleon replied and told the man how Oriane has snatched the painting right out from under him, leaning heavily on the humor of how Michelle had him occupied while it happened.

“Suspicious timing, that. You don’t suppose she put a little bug in the girl’s ear to make it happen, do you?” Napoleon started to answer negatively, but it was a thought. He wanted to believe it had been the combination of champagne and his charms that wore Michelle down, but Oriane had known personal details about the girl, more than a casual acquaintance of her father might know. He was with Michelle for most of the party before their bathroom escapade, but not all of it. 

“It’s possible,” he had to admit. “She has impeccable planning skills. I don’t believe she knew the client double-booked the job until I told her, but I could be wrong.”

“Well, it seems you quite have your hands full. Here I was hoping you might be interested in getting into a little mischief.” 

“You know I like to seize opportunities when they arise, Grant. Was there something specific you had in mind?” The other man smiled impishly. 

“Oh so many things, actually, but we’ll stick with the professional for now. I’ve been working at the _Nationalmuseum Stockholm_. I’ve finally been there long enough that I have access to the larger vaults down below, with a coworker, of course. There are a few things in there that beg for liberation.”

“If you have access, why do you need me?” Napoleon asked.

“Well, I have building access and I can get into the first secure area. The second secured area really is a vault. While I’ve gotten time to look around, I don’t have the combination. It’s the perfect timing for such a thing. If I don’t run off, I won’t be under much suspicion at all.” Grant smiled.

“If you just take a couple things from what is an undoubtedly large vault, how would they even notice?” 

“It’s the alarm system. I’ve seen the schematics, and there’s no beating it. With my access, we won’t trip it until you open the final vault, but since I know where everything is, I’m certain we can get away before anyone responds. A boat escape will be quick, quiet, and unexpected. They will know things are taken but figuring out what and how much could take weeks.”

“Do you think this is a two-man job?” Napoleon asked, a little skeptical.  
“Well, that depends. We’d both need to be inside for access, and it would probably take two people to carry four or five paintings. If we attempt it with two people, we’d either have to arrive by boat or get the boat there long ahead of time, either of which could attract attention.”

“A three-man job, then. The two of us inside and someone who can pilot the boat in on a signal.”

“Did you have someone else in mind?”

 

When Napoleon returned to his rented apartment, Oriane was reading on the couch. 

“So I win the bet,” she said, turning a page.

“How is that? You did not take fifty marks in a row.”

“Yes, but you cheated by bringing in a ringer,” she said. “Therefore, I win the bet.”

“I didn’t bring him; his timing was completely coincidental, and I tried to signal you to abort. At best, I will give you this one miss without starting over, and we’ll continue the bet.” 

“As it turns out, I have to leave for home tomorrow,” Oriane said, putting down her book and looking up at him as he stood in front of her. Napoleon found himself at a loss.

“That’s--unfortunate,” he said. 

“I don’t see why, since you have another playmate to distract you.” Napoleon would have expected a little anger from her at this, but she seemed perfectly calm. He suspected she was trying to bait him but he wasn’t insulted, just curious as to her motives.

“Grant Mitchell is a friend I met when I was in the war. He’s a well respected art expert, with a healthy disrespect for those who like to control art and who views it. He has quite an appealing situation that you might consider to have interesting potential, but I understand if you feel you’ve been neglecting your wifely duties.” Thinking about that produced a funny pit in his stomach, but he pushed it away as she ignored his insult and focused on Grant.

“How did you meet him exactly? And how do you know he can be trusted?”

“He was on the Roberts Commission; I had the fortune of helping them acquire more than a few lots of cultural artifacts seized by Nazi officers. In the end, some of these lots were missing a few of the items they were purported to contain, more’s the pity. I helped him liberate some of them, and he helped me start building my network of contacts.”

“A good business partnership then. That’s it? Nothing more--personal?”

“Why, would you be jealous if there was?” Napoleon felt a little smug that she actually seemed threatened by Grant. She was the one who was married, after all. 

“Well, there might be potential for all sorts of things depending on your history together. He did seem a little funny. Regardless, I want to get a sense of the man if we’re going to work together.”

“Oh, what happened to heading back to Brussels?” She smiled at him.

“It so happens that Henry is going to Stockholm on business in a couple weeks. Of course, I will be travelling with him, since we’ve been parted by my charity work all this time.”

“That’s very convenient,” Napoleon said, trying to hide the relief in his voice.

“Oh, do you find it so? I expect there are many people who can drive a boat in Stockholm, and Grant is apparently a suitable _partner in crime_.” She stood up then, moving forward to wrap her arms around his waist. Napoleon shook his head in frustration. Grant’s appearance had moved them back to innuendo and evasive speech once again.

“Just thinking of you, of course. I fear Brussels can be frightfully dull for a person of your temperament.” 

“That’s very solicitous of you, Napoleon. I do expect that you make my last night in Corfu a memorable one, to make up for it.” She went up on her tiptoes to capture his lips in hers while her hands went for his belt. He picked her up and she wrapped her legs around his waist, deepening the kiss. He carried her straight to the bedroom, where he could lose himself in her for one more night. 

 

It was quite a trip from Corfu up to Stockholm, but he had Grant to travel with. That meant endless hands of gin rummy, but also hearing some great stories. It wasn’t enough to keep his thoughts from straying to Oriane, but it helped. Apparently, he wasn’t very good company though, something Grant commented on during the final leg of their journey.

“I am looking forward to meeting this bird of yours, Napoleon. She must be something to have you so distracted.”

“What are you talking about?” he asked, drawing a card. 

“Just this, Gin!” It was the fourth game in a row Grant had won. 

“I’ve always been crap at rummy,” he protested, halfheartedly.

“Yes, but you’re not even attempting to slide better cards up your sleeve,” Grant pointed out. “Did you go and break your duck and fall in love with her?’

“That would be foolish,” Napoleon replied. “She’s married--rather demanding as well.”

“Love is often foolish, mate. That’s why they write all those nonsensical songs about it. How about we play the next round for money?”

“I don’t think I’ll ever be that foolish, Grant.”

 

Napoleon arranged a rental in _Gamla stan_ , which had the benefit of being just across the strait from _Nationalmuseum_. It was quite pleasing, with a little kitchen overlooking the square. He and Grant were already sipping some fine scotch there when Oriane knocked on the door. She dodged him when he reached for her, going to sit pertly next to Grant and pouring her own scotch. Instead of the practical clothes he had come to expect from her, she was wearing a form fitting dress with a deep v-neck, which highlighted her assets quite well. 

“Let’s get business out of the way first, gentlemen. I understand three nights from now I’m to have a boat ready for extraction outside the _Nationalmuseum_ at 1:30 AM. You will radio me when you are ready, and I will bring the boat around and pick up you and the paintings and take you to _Kvarnholmen_ , where Grant’s contacts will be waiting to buy three of the paintings. From there, I will return you both back here with the painting of Napoleon’s choosing, at which point, I will get rid of the boat and rejoin my husband at our hotel. For this, I get one painting of my choosing.” She slid a piece of paper to Grant. He choked a little on his scotch when he read it, but nodded.

“Yes, I know where that one is.” 

“Excellent. Anything else?”

“Yes,” Napoleon said. “Given the limited time we have to remove the paintings, we thought it would be best to have a distraction plan in case the police show up earlier than expected. If they get within a block before we cast off, I will take the car we arrive in and drive away in a manner to attract attention. I expect I can out maneuver them, but if they catch me, I will appear quite drunk and have no paintings with me. In this case, you and Grant go to sell the paintings and we all rendezvous here, after I deal with the police.”

“Seems straightforward to me. I say we drink to it,” Oriane responded. “Skål!” She downed her scotch in one go. 

“Oh, ho, my girl, that’s not an appropriate treatment for so fine a scotch,” Grant interjected. “I had to smuggle this over myself. If you want to drink like that, stick to vodka or aquavit.” Napoleon went over to the freezer and pulled out a bottle of the latter. He had intended it for after their current project was concluded, but when in Stockholm…

“We should drink to it as a team, this time,” Oriane said, watching Napoleon pour the liquid into three fresh glasses. 

“As you wish, darling,” Napoleon said. “Skål!”

“Skål,” Grant echoed, and they all drank. Oriane seized the bottle and began pouring another round. 

“So, Grant, how do you like Stockholm?” Oriane asked, sipping more slowly now. 

“Well, the winters are a bit long but the food is a good deal better than in England. The fresh fish, anyway. The pickled stuff is worse than anything they boil to death at home.”

“Plus, everyone here is so much more attractive. Instead of those pasty English women, everyone here looks fresh, and wear much less makeup than where I live. I think it’s because they’re naturally more beautiful than us Gallic types. Do you agree?”

“Luv, I’m not sure if you’re trying to catch me out or fishing for a compliment. I hadn’t really noticed, either way,” Grant said dryly. Napoleon tried to interrupt but Oriane continued on.

“Really? I find the Swedish men quite rugged myself. Not as attractive as American men, but more attractive than Gauls for sure.”

“Is that why you married an American, then?” Grant asked.

“Yes, that and the fact that my own countrymen have the most mundane habits. In my experience, Americans are much more--adventurous.” She tipped her head at this, looking up through her eyelashes at Napoleon. It had the desired effect on him, although Grant was unaffected.

“It hardly makes up for their generally boorish manner. You should have seen that one, before I got ahold of him.” Grant nodded at Napoleon, and while his words were insulting, his smile was fond. Napoleon blushed a little, thinking about how uncultured he had been, just a janitor’s kid shuffled off to war, far from home. Oriane looked between them, her eyes calculating.

“I’d be very interested to know all the details of how you managed it, or a demonstration, perhaps? I feel like it would be quite informative and of use in the future.”

“I do hope you’re not implying I still need some improvement,” Napoleon said. 

“You know I find you quite entertaining, Napoleon. But I do think that watching you take--direction--would be quite stimulating.”

“So the actress said to the bishop, luv, but it’s not quite to my liking,” Grant said. “And neither is this aquavit, apparently. I think that I will go home and have a lie-down. Please excuse me, and I will see you both in three days.” Napoleon was left with a suddenly stiff Oriane and a sense of unease. Not really the ideal beginning for a criminal conspiracy.


	5. In need of some restraint

“I don’t think she’s good for you, Napoleon. If I were you, I’d do this job and bid her a fond _au revoir_ , for good. Send her back to her husband.”

“I’m pretty sure she was just kidding,” said Napoleon, who was trying to focus on hot wiring a car. 

“Does that woman ever joke about anything? And if she does, is it for humor or does she have a purpose behind it?”

“Yes, it’s usually to make a point or get under someone’s skin. It has apparently worked quite well on you.” There, he found the correct wires and stripped them. When he twisted them together, the engine turned over and he pulled out onto the street. 

“Is that okay with you, that she does that? And to me, one of your oldest and most intimate friends?” 

“I think that’s what set the whole thing off, honestly. You. And I would be a lot happier about it if she hadn’t stomped out of my apartment ten minutes after you left.”

“You’re not allowed to have friends, a past? Without her making it into some sort of game? She’s married--” Grant started, before Napoleon cut him off.

“I understand your misgivings, and I will give it some thought, I promise. Right now, can we just focus on the task at hand? I’m driving a stolen car, and you’re making it no fun at all.” 

“That’s the other thing I’m worried about! Here we are, in the middle of my grand plan. How do you know she’s not going to cock everything up?” Napoleon squelched his own apprehension at this. 

“Her neck is on the line here too,” Napoleon reasoned. “And she’s quite precise when she’s on a job. She’ll leave any issues alone until after.” Grant seemed somewhat mollified by his certainty, and rode the rest of the way to the museum in silence. Napoleon finally felt the anticipation start to grow. He hadn’t yet had a chance to crack anything like the huge vault at the museum. Then there was the possibility of a car chase afterward. This was much more exciting than digging one’s way through four brick walls.

It went smoothly, more or less. The size of the vault, while exciting, didn’t make it any harder for Napoleon to crack. There was no time to admire a fraction of what the vault held or even the endless creativity and vision it represented. They had planned precisely who would retrieve which paintings, but the sirens were already audible when Oriane pulled the boat up to the landing. He handed the last painting over the rail to Oriane as Grant climbed aboard, then started doubling back to the car.

His heart was pounding as he went racing right by the patrol cars headed toward the museum. As planned, they turned to pursue him, but he was already too far ahead. The key then was to lose them and ditch the car before they caught up. He went into Östermalm, pushing the small stolen car as fast as it could go. Three days of studying nighttime traffic patterns and planning his route paid off. A few well-planned turns and he lost his tail in the maze of residential streets. He parked the car in a small alley and struck out returning westward. It was easy to keep to the shadows as he went, the streets quiet except for police cars, now driving a systematic search grid.

 

He had to take a circuitous route back to the Old Town, and it was almost two hours later when he arrived at his little flat. It was dark and empty. After his long walk, he was hoping to find his companions had already arrived, but anything could have delayed them. Too keyed up to rest, he tied his apron on and set to baking so they could enjoy _fika_ when they returned. Maybe a little sweetness and Swedish tradition would smooth over the misunderstandings between them. Kneading the dough for his attempt at _kardemummabullar_ helped soothe his anxiety a little, but as he waited for the dough to rise he couldn’t help but watch the clock. If police had trailed or caught the boat, they were to have let him know via radio. Perhaps the sale had gone wrong--or there had been a mechanical issue with the boat and they were drifting through the straits, hoping to run aground before daylight and someone helpful boarded and discovered their illicit cargo. It was a relief when the dough was done proofing and he could focus on rolling the dough shaping the buns. The repetition was calming.

Daylight was breaking and he was just glazing the last of the buns when Oriane finally came through the door, carrying two paintings--alone. She locked the door behind her and smiled at him, now resembling the cat who got the cream. She leaned the paintings against the wall, placed her small bag on the table, and came up to kiss him. Her eyes narrowed when he held her off.

“Grant?” he asked anxiously. 

“Not happy to see me, then?” she asked, pouting a little.

“Of course I am, but you were to have someone else with you. What happened?”

“The deal went bad, I’m afraid. Are those buns ready? I’m afraid I’m famished.”

“Yes, of course…” Napoleon moved automatically to start the coffee pot for her while she fixed herself a plate. “How did it happen?”

“Do you really want the details? It was quite ugly.” 

“Yes--no. I assume he’s dead?” To her credit, Oriane at least tried to look sad while she delivered the news.

“I’m afraid so.” She tucked into her cardamom buns and coffee and he felt a little sick. He wouldn’t have expected her to get too upset about Grant. She was unsentimental about most things; they had just met, and she had been rejected by Grant. The last thought set his radar to pinging.

“I’m so glad you managed it, but however did you get away unscathed? And with two of the five paintings, no less?”

“Ah, well, I had secreted them on the boat, his buyers never saw them. And Grant told me to cover him from the boat, so it was easy to get away, although it did mean dodging a couple bullets. The boat took the worst of it, fortunately.”

“You seem very calm for having watched someone die, and then got shot at themselves,” he observed. “I can’t imagine that’s something you’re accustomed to, even with your hobbies.” He was dismayed to observe her tell, her shoulders pulling back as tension collected between them. 

“I had to pilot the boat back, so I’ve had time to collect myself. Should I scream--cry? Would that make you feel better?”

“No, of course not. Why did Grant ask you to cover him from the boat? He hadn’t told me he was expecting any trouble.”

“I think there was an extra person at the dock when we pulled up. Maybe someone he hadn’t expected?” She sounded uncertain. Napoleon turned to lean over the sink, looking out the window. If that had happened, Grant would have aborted the sale. He was too experienced and too cautious to have attempted to bluff his way through a change of plans with only Oriane for back-up--particularly since he hadn’t trusted her. 

“You killed him yourself, didn’t you? Please tell me you actually shot him, and didn’t just push him into the strait to freeze.”

“I would hardly take the chance that he might survive. He’s dead, of that you can be certain.” He turned to face her and as he had expected, she now had a gun trained on him.

“What was the point of lying to me about it? Did you really expect I wouldn’t figure it out?”

“I knew you would figure it out, Napoleon. I just had a little bet with myself as to how long it would take. I’ll admit, it was faster than anticipated.” 

“What a compliment. Are you going to kill me as well? Over an impersonal snub and a little unfounded jealousy?”

“You’ve hardly tried to convince me it was unfounded. Despite being a keen observer of human behavior, you’re quite terrible at facing up to your own feelings.” Napoleon swallowed, hard. 

“It was much easier to hope we’d start boring each other before we got here, than--to face up to the fact that I love a monster. Both say something about me I’d rather not contemplate. So please, just enjoy your revenge, and shoot me already.” She laughed, sounding all too pleased.

“I’m not going to shoot you, Napoleon. That would be quite a waste. You should have plenty of time to consider your feelings. It will also be to my advantage to let others use your skills for their own purposes.” She stood, motioning with her free hand. “Into the bedroom, now.” He backed in there slowly, watching her draw a pair of handcuffs from her bag. Her eyes never left him. He considered throwing himself at her, but despite his remarks, he didn’t want to die. Also, there might still be a chance to escape whatever she had planned for him.

She had him cuff himself to the bed, staying out of arm’s reach. She did make sure to tighten them. He was surprised when she went into the other room and retrieved the paintings, setting them where he could see them. She sat on the bed beside him.

“This is goodbye, my dear. It might mollify you to learn that you are, without a doubt, the most fun I’ve ever had.” She leaned in to kiss him, and he almost let her. Then he pictured Grant climbing onto the boat with her, and knowing that he sent his friend to his death, turned his head away. 

“Some of the coldest comfort I’ve ever heard, Oriane. What do you have planned now?” She sat up, regarding him coolly. 

“Just be a good boy and sit tight until someone comes to collect you, Napoleon.” She left him then, the front door sounding rather final as it closed.

He supposed that she had set up the paintings so he’d have something interesting to look at while he lay there, but all he could see was a bowl with two fish. One was belly up, and the other a prisoner. That was supremely unhelpful, so he pushed it away and started trying to apply himself to escape. He was handcuffed to the top rail of a wooden bedframe, and there were three spindles between his cuffs and either edge of the bed. If he could get past them, he would probably be able to detach the headboard from the horizontal bit of the frame, and at least get separate from the bed.

Oriane hadn’t bothered to tie his feet down, so after a little squirming he managed to kick one foot up and brace it against the rail. Damn, that was uncomfortable. His back and neck might never be the same after this. He then tried to extend his leg, pushing the railing up and hopefully dislodging some of the spindles. 

The bed wasn’t as sturdy as he thought, and it worked too well. The entire bed collapsed, dropping him to the floor, the railing falling square on his forehead. That hurt, but he drew himself up into a kneeling position and started disentangling himself from the bed frame. 

He had just stood up, free of the bedframe, and was contemplating what he had that would best take care of the handcuffs when six armed men, wearing plain black clothes, came through the front door and into the bedroom. It could be worse, he thought. At least they didn’t catch him on his back. 

He was surprised to hear unaccented English from the men, who refused to speak directly to him, but packed him and the paintings off in short order. 

To his further astonishment, they took him to the U.S. Embassy. He didn’t know what Oriane had up her sleeve, but she had apparently reported him to her husband or someone else at the Embassy. He was taken to the basement and placed in a room with only a small table and two chairs in it. An older man was sitting there, looking at some papers. The men escorting him dropped him in the other chair and attached his handcuffs to the table before leaving the room.

“My name is Sanders, Mr. Solo, and you’re in quite a lot of trouble.”

“I’d be very interested to know why. I haven’t done anything naughty that I can recall.”

“Solo. You were found with two very valuable paintings that were stolen from the _Nationalmuseum_ earlier tonight. Are you telling me you don’t know how you got them?”

“Oh, those? I was holding them for a friend. I’ve never been to the _Nationalmuseum_.” Saunders ignored this, placing a sheet of paper in front of him to read.

“A friend of the U.S. is accusing you of some very serious crimes. I have here a partial list. If you’ve done even half of these, you’re a very talented and dangerous man.” There, in Oriane’s handwriting, was a much more complete list than he expected. The Paris jewelry store robbery was there, of course, and a few things he had told her stories about during pillow talk. More alarming was a few things only he and Grant had known about. She must have really taken her time killing him. Adding insult to injury, she had listed his murder at the bottom. 

“Last I checked, you can’t convict on hearsay.” Napoleon said. “You have no evidence I’ve done any of this.”

“We have the paintings, Solo. And we’re combing the straits for Mr. Mitchell’s body as we speak.”

“I’d like to arrange for a lawyer.”

“You might not want to do that, actually. The man who did these things, he has a lot he could offer the United States. If you confess, and explain how you pulled these off, you can serve your country instead of serving time. I have a contract here, and if you sign it, you can work for me and all this goes away.” Sanders slid a much more substantial stack of paperwork this way. Napoleon read it, carefully, and found an airtight contract that would have him working for none other that the CIA--for the next thirty years.

“I’ve already served my country,” Solo said. “Please, let me speak to a lawyer.”


	6. Epilogue - Have some sympathy, and some taste

They sent him back to the U.S. for his trial, of course. Once he had been returned to the Embassy, promising to try him for his crimes went over a long way with smoothing things over for the U.S. in Sweden. They had no extradition treaty, so it was too much for the Swedish government to ask to try him instead, and they settled for the return of the two recovered paintings. Despite hiring a well-respected and expensive lawyer, there wasn’t much that could be done for his defense, having been caught red-handed with two priceless paintings the same night as a break-in at the museum.

“Creating reasonable doubt is a matter of offering the jury a more plausible story than the one offered by the prosecution,” his lawyer told him. “All you’ve given me was that the heist was Mitchell’s idea and that Mrs. Wallace killed him and set you up. No jury is going to believe she would do either of those things, even if we could get her over here to testify. And if we bring up Mitchell, who is still missing, the jury is just as likely to assume you killed him instead.” Napoleon was lucky that Grant’s body was never discovered, and he was still just “missing,” presumably having run off with the other three paintings taken from the museum.

His lawyer was right and it didn’t take the jury very long to convict him. Before he knew it, he was sentenced to serve fifteen years in a medium security prison in upstate New York. At least the prosecution had nothing on Grant’s death, or Sanders’ list of his other alleged crimes. It could have been worse.

He was assigned to kitchen duty, which he assumed was someone’s idea of a joke. It pained him to contribute to the daily preparation of dreadful food, but he bent his mind to learning the patterns of the prison and developing a plan for escape. The Canadian border wasn’t very far away. If he could get there, he could get back to Europe, and out of the reach of the U.S. government. He’d never be able to return, but he could live with that. He had barely two weeks of washing dishes and gathering information when Sunders reappeared.

“Prison is no place for a man like you, Solo. I’m prepared to offer you the same deal as before. Sign this contract and come work for me for the next fifteen years, or rot here instead.” Napoleon had to wonder exactly what Oriane had said to this man. It must have been something for the CIA to spend so much effort trying to gain his cooperation. 

“I’m not sure there’s much difference in a correctional institute like this and a government agency that would strongarm a U.S. citizen into working for them, against his will. Seems like a prison either way,” Napoleon said, and signaled for the guard to return him to the kitchen.

Not two days after that, he got cornered by two men who were unhappy with the volume of food he had served them at lunch. It stank of manipulation and he got a bit roughed up, but in the end he was left standing with both of them at his feet. Until the guards whisked him off to solitary confinement, anyway. 

In solitary, he couldn’t observe prison operations and keep his mind occupied by planning an escape. He tried to keep his mind busy in other ways, speaking to himself in German and responding in Italian, for practice. He tried to develop new recipes in his head but that was ultimately a cruel exercise in self flagellation as the guards brought him nothing but two bowls of gruel a day. All his tricks only got him through the first two days, and then he had to finally face himself, and how he had come to this. 

When his week in solitary finally ended, he was unsurprised to find Sanders waiting for him again. He was certain that the man would continue to attempt to manipulate him, to soften him up. Solitary had caused Napoleon to develop doubts in his ability to hold out until he could escape. 

“Sign the papers, Solo. I’m sure you’ve been working on some grand escape plan, but this isn’t a movie. Trying to escape will only get you moved to a higher security prison--if the guards don’t shoot you.” Napoleon wanted to hate Sanders, but at least his tactics were honest. He might be able to manipulate someone so straightforward, given time. He sat there for a long time, carefully packing away every terrible thought that had plagued him for the last five days. Once his mind was clear, he knew what he had to do. 

“Ten years. Change the contract to ten years in service of the CIA, and I’ll sign it.”

“You’re learning to compromise, Solo. I think you’ll make a very fine agent indeed.”

**Author's Note:**

> The painting: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Henri_Matisse,_1914,_Les_poissons_rouges_(Interior_with_a_Goldfish_Bowl),_oil_on_canvas,_147_x_97_cm,_Centre_Georges_Pompidou,_Paris.jpg
> 
> Chapter titles from "Sympathy for the Devil" by the Rolling Stones because I have too much sympathy for this particular one.
> 
> I feel like I should apologize for all the dick jokes but I'm not sorry. 
> 
> Talk to me on tumblr: katiekeysburg


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